


Rumor Has It

by Momonoki



Category: Darkwing Duck (Cartoon 1991), Disney Duck Universe, DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Alcohol, And it's LP's turn with it this time, Attempt at Humor, Awful People, Bad Observational Skills, Drake and LP share one braincell, Drake says damn a lot, Gossip, Humorous Ending, Jealousy, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Misunderstandings, Rumors, Swearing, Tsunderes, Which I find funny and Dad-like, drakepad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:40:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23217154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Momonoki/pseuds/Momonoki
Summary: Drake and Launchpad attend a neighborhood summer festival.  The two get separated, and Drake gets trapped chatting with a crowd of housewives, who are dishing the dirt on an unnamed couple in the neighborhood who are particularly...well,dirtyand apparently, downright oblivious.  Launchpad helps solve the mystery.Rated for language (Drake, at least in his thoughts, has kind of a potty mouth…), mention of alcohol, general awfulness of the gossipy people, and references to sex (although it is generally euphemistic).
Relationships: Drake Mallard/Launchpad McQuack
Comments: 19
Kudos: 150





	Rumor Has It

**Author's Note:**

> This was written with the characterizations from the '91 cartoon in mind, but there are one or two references to elements from the Ducktales reboot. 
> 
> This story was inspired by Darkwing's hilarious observational skills, which can be described as having a very "can't see the forest for the trees" kind of vibe.

Drake sighed, taking in the lively atmosphere around him. He might not like having to deal with all of these people but hey, at least the weather was good. 

Purely against his better judgment, Drake had finally given in to Launchpad’s pleas and here they were, attending the neighborhood summer festival, which spanned several streets in their suburban sanctuary. The sun was bright and his neighbors from here and there were milling about, chatting with friends, cooking and sharing food and drinks. More than a few adults looked a bit tipsy, and kids were running wild, trampling So-and-so’s prizewinning rosebushes and chasing each other with water guns. Even though the cheaply made flyers called the event a “festival,” to be honest, this whole thing was basically just a huge neighborhood cookout. Even so—or perhaps _especially because_ of that—Launchpad, who ate like a garbage disposal, was absolutely giddy at the prospect of chowing down on a ton of free food. 

Still a little grumpy about having to do this in the first place, Drake had insisted on going up a couple of streets to try the barbecue of their more distant neighbors since, if nothing else, he wanted to avoid Herb Muddlefoot from next door, who was just going to brag incessantly about his cooking. Drake didn’t want to hear for the _umpteenth time_ about how great his coconut burgers were. Instead of joining them in fleeing from the Muddlefoots, Gosalyn had decided to stay and hang out on their street with Herb’s son Honker, so Drake assumed she was okay with both Herb’s cooking and all the bragging. He couldn’t understand how she dealt with an egomaniac like that. Drake really just needed a break from the Muddlefoots in general. He wasn’t _super_ interested in barbecue—most of it was just too damn spicy—but he could use something to drink. Ah, over there was a long table with dozens of cups of lemonade set out for festivalgoers. Perfect. 

When he ambled over to the table and had just picked up an especially full and refreshing-looking cup, Drake found himself suddenly surrounded by a gaggle of particularly gossipy looking housewives from a few streets over. Launchpad was nowhere to be seen. Focusing on his present company, Drake racked his brain trying to remember these women’s names and even if he had met any of them before. What was that one lady’s name? Rita? Or maybe Melinda? He had probably met one of two of these housewife types once or twice at some point, but beyond exchanging names and the barest of greetings, he didn’t really want to get to know them more than he needed to. He had enough issues dealing with Binkie from next door, and she was one housewife too many. 

Ignoring his presence, Melinda (if that _was_ actually her name) started whispering to some of the other women, who were grabbing up the rest of the lemonade. “So, ladies, I keep hearing this pretty juicy story about a couple right here in this neighborhood,” and at this, _of course_ all the housewives crowded in to listen. Drake rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t easily squeeze out of the newly-formed crowd, so sandwiched between two middle-aged and apparently gossip-hungry women, he just reluctantly sipped his lemonade, wishing that he had had the wherewithal to bring something to spike it with.

“So, I heard that this couple is so loud at night they keep the neighbors awake, you know, with their … _lovemaking_ ,” Melinda said this last part somewhat bashfully behind a cupped hand, and all the housewives squealed. Oh, great. Sex gossip. Now Drake really wished he had some alcohol. 

“They don’t _ever_ close the windows, you know, so it’s no wonder people can hear them all the way down the street,” she giggled, and the other women joined in. 

“Hmm, that sounds like Jon and Gina from over on Albatross Drive,” said a blondish woman in a red sundress, smirking. “They’re newlyweds,” she added, as if _that_ made it somehow make sense, and the other housewives nodded in agreement, snickering and whispering among themselves.

Melinda shook her head. “No, I think that’s too far north, so I don’t think it’s them. From what I heard this rambunctious couple lives somewhere closer to Canary or Avian.” 

Huh, Drake thought absently, gulping down the rest of his drink. Sounded like the mysterious horndogs lived somewhere close to his street. He didn’t listen closely whenever Binkie spouted random gossip though, so this was the first he’d heard about any nighttime miscreants. That said, if they _were_ in fact disturbing the peace, he might have to intervene as Darkwing Duck, or at the very least call the cops.

“I heard these two are also, ahem… _very active_ during the day,” Melinda continued as the other women sighed, seemingly with jealousy.

“How come _they_ get to have so much fun?” One bookish-looking woman muttered. “I can barely get my David to even glance my way.” Sheesh. Part of it’s the attitude, lady, Drake thought.

“It helps when the husband is apparently a total hunk,” Melinda said, waggling her eyebrows, and the other women perked up their ears. Drake too, was a little curious. How did they have any clue about what the man looked like? They sounded like damn stalkers.

“I heard that sometimes, they don’t close their curtains, and somebody walking by caught a glimpse of them, uh, _doing the deed_ …on the couch together.” A couple women, apparently appalled, tsk-tsked at this, and a couple others looked wistful, as if they were thinking if only they could be so lucky. “But anyway, they say that the husband is really tall and muscular, so it's no wonder his wife can't keep her hands off him. He's a _total_ beefcake.” The housewives murmured excitedly amongst themselves, perhaps forming their own individual ideas of what this mysterious “hunk” looked like. 

“Well, what does _she_ look like, then? Aren’t you going to describe the wife?” Drake was as shocked as the women were to find that he had suddenly joined the conversation. He had been sucked into it, sort of like when he got stuck watching soap operas on TV. Look, he didn’t intend to start watching _Los Patos de la Pasión_. It just sort of happened. He didn’t even understand Spanish, and yet…

“Hmm…oddly, I don’t think anyone’s really mentioned much about her, appearance-wise. Although I heard she’s extremely petite,” Melinda said, looking thoughtful.

“Of _course_ she is,” muttered the bookish-looking woman sarcastically. “Probably _has_ to look like that, in order to snag a catch like that.” Wow. This woman has serious issues, Drake thought. I should maybe give this lady a wide berth.

“Oh, there’s one more thing about her that I know,” Melinda said, raising a finger. Drake couldn’t help but be curious now. “You know how I said she and her husband were super loud at night? Well, she has a special nickname for him that she calls him… _during the act_ ,” she whispered, smirking, and again all the housewives tittered in anticipation. Drake raised an eyebrow. What on earth could it be? Honey-bunny? Sweetie pie? Baby? He couldn’t imagine it. He and the housewives leaned in, waiting with bated breath.

“It’s ‘Elfie,’” Melinda said finally, and everyone including Drake looked completely confused. What the hell was an Elfie?

“You know how her husband’s so tall? Well, elves, you know, like Christmas elves—are short, right? So, ‘Elfie,’ as kind of a joke,” she explained, and some women nodded in understanding. Drake and several of the remaining housewives, though, were still confused. So, was it kind of like calling a ridiculously big guy ‘Tiny?’ Some people have really weird tastes.

“So, when they’re getting busy, she just goes, ‘Give it to me, Elfie?’ Or, ‘Oh, Elfie, faster!’” The bookish lady imitated some mock-sex talk, and Drake blushed, shocked to hear this kind of thing from a lady whose picture you could find under the dictionary definition of ‘librarian.’ Drake guessed that he shouldn’t judge books by their covers— _heh_. “No way—that’s just too silly. I don’t believe that’s a real nickname.” Melinda just shrugged. 

“Seriously, are you sure that’s really his nickname and that she’s not talking about his… _you know_?” The woman in the sundress joked. “Maybe in comparison to his huge bod, it’s really _small_.” The housewives all snickered to themselves, entertained by this possibility. Not finding this amusing, Drake felt his hackles rising.

“Even if that _was_ true, why in the hell would she make fun of that _to his face_ , though?” Drake sputtered, and the housewives all suddenly seemed to remember that Drake was, in fact, a man. A tad embarrassed by his own outburst, he crossed his arms and muttered, “Seems extremely rude, that’s all.”

“Oh, yes, you’re probably right, Mr. err, Drake—right?—Mallard, was it?” Melinda offered her hand. The other housewives, uninterested in this exchange, began chittering among themselves. “I’m Melinda LoQuacktious. I believe we might have met at one point.” Drake reluctantly shook her hand, a little creeped out by how moist it was.

“Where in this fine neighborhood do you live at, Mr. Mallard? May I call you Drake? I’m up on Hawkings Drive myself.”

“Oh, I live on Avian Way,” Drake said, and at the word “Avian,” the other housewives immediately turned their attention back to him, eager to hear what he had to say.

“Oh! If you live on Avian, you might have heard more about the little adventures of our… _enthusiastic_ couple, then,” Melinda said, eyes shining, clearly looking for more dirt.

“Err, sorry. I don’t pay much attention to—” here, Drake was going to say ‘gossip,’ but given his current company, decided against it. “Neighborhood goings-on.” That was euphemistic enough. 

“Hmm. That’s quite odd that you haven’t heard anything about it. Especially given the fact that I’m pretty sure Binkie Muddlefoot lives on Avian, and I’ll wager she knows _waaaay_ more about those lewd little lovebirds than any of us.” At the mention of Binkie, the other housewives nodded in reverence, as if she was some sort of gossip queen.

“Oh, Binkie? She lives right next door, but she’s never said a word about them,” Drake (probably) lied. He had no clue if she had mentioned anything about them or not. Why should he care, anyway? Seriously, none of this mattered in the least.

“Wow! You’re next-door neighbors with Mrs. Muddlefoot? What an honor. Oh, I bet you know all kinds of juicy tidbits!” Melinda and the other housewives started crowding around Drake even closer. He was starting to feel kind of overwhelmed by these people. What did they want, Binkie’s autograph or something? He needed to get out of here!

Suddenly, like the world’s silliest white knight riding in to save him, Launchpad appeared, holding a half-eaten hot dog. Wearing his characteristic goofy but handsome grin, he towered above Drake, Melinda and the other housewives.

“Hey, DW. I was wonderin’ where you’d got to. Whatcha doin’ over here?” 

The housewives, immediately forgetting about Drake, looked dreamily up at Launchpad, eyes sparkling. Even when he crudely stuffed his mouth full with what was left of his hot dog, they were obviously completely enthralled by the sight of him. Several of them, Drake noticed—despite being presumably MARRIED, mind you—were being _NOT AT ALL_ subtle about checking him out. Damn degenerates. Well, Launchpad _was_ pretty muscular, so getting that kind of attention wasn’t exactly… _rare_ for him. But how in the hell was he able to ignore it when that one bookish lady was so obviously looking him up and down? Hey, eyes above the belt, Crazy. Drake couldn’t put his finger on why, but he was feeling kind of ticked off. 

As usual, he misdirected his anger at an undeserving target: Launchpad. “Never mind where I’ve been! Where have YOU been, hmm?” Crossing his arms in a huff, Drake couldn’t keep the edge out of his voice. 

“Aw, gee, well, I thought I’d go get some of that fancy lookin’ barbecue on the end of the street, and then I saw they had hot dogs too,” Launchpad said, licking his lips, clearly thinking of food, as some of the women gazing up at him did the same, but obviously with something else in mind. Disgusted, Drake could feel his blood pressure rising. 

“Then I turned around and I couldn’t see ya anymore, DW…” Launchpad looked remorseful, and Drake felt a little bad for snapping at him. Truth be told, Drake had kinda wandered off on his own, too.

“Err, well. You found me now,” Drake said awkwardly, and Launchpad gave him a radiant smile. Beside him, all the housewives collectively swooned. Drake grimaced. These women were getting on his last goddamn nerve.

“Um, excuse me, Drake?” Melinda reappeared beside Drake, a little close for comfort. “Would you be so kind to uh, introduce us to your mmmm… _statuesque_ friend?” Melinda sounded like she wanted to say something decidedly dirtier than “statuesque,” but had thought better of it. Drake had wanted to escape these weirdos, but now that Launchpad was smiling giddily and _Aw shucks_ -ing it up in the middle of these women, who were dancing around him like he was the maypole at a damn spring festival, Drake couldn’t really leave.

“Um, well, this is Launchpad,” Drake said simply and curtly. He didn’t need to say anything else.

“Launchpad—?” Melinda addressed the pilot directly this time, and Launchpad eagerly took her hand, giving it a nice firm shake. Melinda, flushing, returned the handshake, and started fanning herself with her other hand like a blushy Southern belle.

“Launchpad McQuack, ma’am. Pleased to meetcha.” With this he gave her one of his signature smiles, and Melinda and every single one of the women practically melted. Drake was seething. He really couldn’t take this shit anymore.

“Yeahyeahyeah. Hello, nice to meet you, and now goodbye,” Drake said, pushing against Launchpad’s burly chest, trying—however futilely—to budge the hefty bastard so that they could puh-leaaase _GET GOING NOW_.

“Oh, uh, I guess we’re gonna go home now, huh, DW?” Launchpad stopped smiling at the ladies, and looked down at Drake inquisitively, noticing Drake sweating and straining against him like he was trying to move a boulder.

“YES, LP. Let’s— _for the love of God_ —get out of here,” Drake muttered through gritted teeth, hands still knotted up in Launchpad’s shirt. 

A sudden hush came over the crowd of housewives, and startled, Drake looked over at them, noticing Melinda in particular narrowing her eyes at him and Launchpad. Jeez, what now? Was she and the others mad that he said something “sacrilegious” or something? Or worse, did he accidentally let something slip about his secret heroic identity?

“T-that’s an… _interesting_ nickname,” Melinda said slowly, raising an eyebrow. Drake was so confused. What in the hell was she talking about?

“What nickname?” 

“ _Elpie_ , was it? For Mr. McQuack,” she said evenly, and suddenly, instead of gazing up at the magnetic “Mr. McQuack” like they had been, everyone was now staring at Drake like they’d seen a ghost. Or fucking Bigfoot.

“Well, yeah. LP. Stands for Launch-Pad. Not that hard to figure out,” Drake said, shrugging. Why were they losing their shit over this? 

Her eyes dark, Melinda was smirking for some reason. “Ah, so it’s LP, not Elpie.” It sounded like she just said the same thing twice, which only bewildered Drake more. Looking deathly serious, the crowd of housewives kept gawking at Drake, then at Launchpad, then back at Drake, calculating something that Drake couldn’t even begin to fathom. Damn weirdos. It was time for him and Launchpad to make their much-needed exit. The mood here was going south, fast.

“Okay, well, we’re going to get going, then,” Drake said, grabbing Launchpad’s hand and tugging him along. “Nice talking to you,” he lied, and squeezed through the crowd. Melinda and the other housewives were glaring daggers at him as he left, and even as he turned away from them, he could feel their eyes boring a hole in the back of his head. Yikes. This was an excellent reason why he didn’t usually come to these neighborhood-wide get-togethers. Launchpad liked the food at least, but somehow or another Drake typically pissed off _somebody_. Whether it was insulting their cooking or just them in general, usually he _at least_ knew what he did. But this time, he wasn’t really sure. 

_\---_

He was still ruminating over it later that night, trying to figure out what happened with that Melinda woman and those other oddball housewives from the neighborhood. Why did they turn on him so suddenly? He was sitting up in bed, chin in his hands, just trying to think. 

“Still up, DW?” Launchpad murmured lazily, rolling over beside Drake. He had been blissfully snoring up until a few moments ago.

“Yeah, I just can’t understand what happened with those women. I was chatting with them normally up until I said ‘LP,’ and then their attitude completely changed.”

“Well, what were ya talkin’ about before that?” LP yawned, and snuggled up to Drake’s side.

“ _THEY_ ,” he emphasized, instead of ‘we’—he wanted Launchpad to know _he_ hadn’t been involved, “were gossiping about some married couple, who they’re _soooo_ jealous of,” Drake scoffed, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. “Some huge hunky guy and his teeny tiny wife, who have loud sex all the time and the whole neighborhood knows about it. Apparently she calls him ‘Elfie,’ which is beyond bizarre.”

“Heh, well, you call me ‘LP,’ dontcha? It’s not that different,” Launchpad said nonchalantly. “Heck, it sounds almost exactly like it. Elfie, LP.” He started to drift off. Drake shook his head. LP clearly didn’t get it, the silly sleepyhead. 

“That’s not even—” Drake began to explain, and his words stuck in his throat. Wait a second. 

Elfie?

 _Elpie_??

 ** _LP??!!_** The critical piece of the puzzle shifted sickeningly into place.

_Oh, fuck. FUUUUUCCCKK._

Realization struck Drake like a thunderbolt, and he couldn’t finish his sentence. Hell, he could barely even _breathe_ as he recounted what he remembered about the “mystery couple.” His mind reeling, he looked down at his sleeping husband Launchpad— _definitely_ a hunk by any standards, then considered himself. He didn’t want to admit it, but he _was_ tiny—maybe not ‘TEENY TINY’ though, _dammit_ —especially when compared to this big lug. 

A hard lump in his throat, still hoping against hope that he was somehow mistaken, he then cast an apprehensive glance over at their bedroom windows, of course _none of which_ he had bothered to put curtains on. He soon felt a cold drop of sweat sickeningly slide down his back, as it dawned on him that he was pretty sure that all the windows downstairs were the same—absolutely _curtainless_. As in, _anyone_ could look in, at _any time_. No matter what sordid activities somebody and his husband might have _ALLEGEDLY_ gotten up to while their daughter was at school. 

The blood drained from his face and his heart began beating wildly in his chest as he noticed another critical detail about his windows. Though he wanted nothing more than to continue to believe otherwise, the most damning evidence of all to the identities of the mysterious rambunctious couple was the fact that since it was summer, at night he had been keeping _all_ of their windows, including and _especially_ the _BEDROOM_ windows…

_Wide._

_Fucking._

_Open._

Drake felt sick to his stomach because Gosalyn’s recent obsession with earplugs and noise-cancelling headphones suddenly made a _hell_ of a lot of sense. 

_\---_

Drake avoided the neighborhood barbecues and block parties with extreme prejudice for about a year or so after that. He immediately bought some curtains—which Binkie Muddlefoot _kept_ congratulating him on, and he wanted to just melt into the floor every time she did, because he knew she _KNEW_ —and though it wasn’t great for the environment, he kept the windows tightly shut at night and just ran the damn AC. It was worth it to maintain his dignity and his sanity.

And _hopefully_ , it would help him and “Elfie” avoid becoming the unwitting subjects of any “juicy” new gossip in the future. 


End file.
